


After The Fall, by Gladstone the puppy

by jamlockk



Series: Gladstone [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Gladstone POV, Gladstone the Dog, Grief, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is gone. Gladstone is trying to look after John, waiting for a miracle John knows isn't coming. But they both will always believe in Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Fall, by Gladstone the puppy

**Author's Note:**

> The adventures of Gladstone the puppy continue! I cried a little bit writing this, but I promise there's a happy ending.

The day my world crumbled around me was the day Lestrade came to collect me from my home. At first I was delighted to see him, and I leapt up from where I had been sitting at Mrs Hudson's feet. Then I looked up and I couldn't help it; I shrank down to my haunches and whimpered. Something was wrong. Something was gravely wrong.

I hated that day. When I was finally reunited with John he could hardly bear to look at me, Lestrade gave my leash to Sally, who took me away. She led me outside to a bench and tried to get me to sit. I refused, I wanted John. I wanted Sherlock. Where were they, why wasn't I allowed to see them?! I paced and snarled and panicked, and I frightened Sally. She spoke to me soothingly, trying to calm me down. I felt horrible then, that I had scared her. I hopped up onto the bench beside her and laid my head in her lap. I think she was surprised but I heard a funny catch in her voice when she spoke to me again.

"I'm sorry Gladstone, I'm so sorry."

I didn't understand until later. Sherlock was gone.

******

In the time I had been living in that cosy building with John and Sherlock I had mostly grown into my clumsy feet and shaggy coat. Sherlock pretended to ignore the scratches I sometimes accidentally left on the hardwood floors, and John pretended to despair at my shedding russet hairs everywhere, but I knew that secretly they weren't angry. I adored them both and they loved me very much. I knew from the way they would let me sit with them on the sofa. The way John would scold and laugh when I showered him with bubbles, shaking myself as he gave me a bath. The way Sherlock would stroke me softly, brush my coat for long hours to rid it of the tangles, bits of leaf, mud, whatever I'd tracked in from my walk that day.

Then something happened and everything changed. John never took me home again, we went somewhere new and we've been there ever since. I don't like this place, it's bland and it doesn't smell of home. At least I have John here with me, but I deeply miss Sherlock. He hasn't come back yet. He's been gone so very long.

I doze on the boring carpet, one of John's jumpers between my paws. I know I'll get in trouble for getting hair on it later, but I like the smell. John comes home and his eyes are red. He stumbles as he walks to the kitchen, I hear the clinking of glass and the sound of liquid pouring. This is happening a lot these days; John is so very sad. It makes me miserable, I just want my masters together again and happy.

John comes into the tiny sitting room with his glass and sits down in a chair. It's not his chair, his chair is still at home. He sullenly looks at me and I try to look suitably apologetic about his jumper. He huffs a laugh at me, takes a sip of his drink. It stinks but I think it must help him, like medicine. He sleeps so much after having some. He sets his glass down at the side of the ugly, horrid chair and sits back. His eyes are watering again and I want more than anything in the world to take his sadness away. I stand and go over to him, bringing my front paws up to rest either side of his legs on the chair. He pets my head and beckons for me to jump up.

I try to comfort John as best I can, in the same way I used to for Sherlock. I curl up in his lap and he holds me close. His shoulders heave and my fur muffles his sobs, getting wet with his tears. I lick his hair like I used to for Sherlock. Sometimes he laughs when I do it. Sometimes it makes him angry. I misjudged it this time, he is suddenly furious with me. He shouts at me to get down, leave him alone. I don't understand, but I quickly jump down from his lap and go to lie in the corner, far away. I don't like this, I want to be close. He cries harder then, looking at me cowering in the corner.

"I'm so sorry Gladstone, I'm sorry, please," John says, sinking to the floor and knocking over the glass of foul-smelling liquid. It seeps into the boring carpet. John opens his arms to me, his voice is thick and he sniffles.

"Please Glads, come here love," he pleads softly. My heart aches and I pad over, resting my head on his good shoulder as his arms circle around me. We stay that way, huddled together on the floor, for a long time. Eventually, I nudge John and he gets unsteadily to his feet. I abandoned my own bed long ago, and I gladly follow him to his room to settle at his feet. He pats the space beside him and I shuffle up the bed. We drift off to sleep together, his arm draped over my side, fingers tangled in my fur. 

****** 

I once got a piece of glass caught in my foot. I'd be running about a car park, investigating one last time before we had to leave. We'd taken a long trip to get to the place we were staying, there were two very friendly men there. Though Sherlock didn't like me spending too much time with them. I guessed it was because he and John weren't supposed to be sharing the bed, like they did at home. They giggled and made lots of funny noises while we were there, I think they thought I couldn't hear them in my sleep. I stayed on the floor, trying to ignore them wrestling under the covers.

John shushed my whimpering and took the shard out, wrapping my foot carefully with material from a box in the car. I tried to lick and chew it and he told me off. Sherlock lifted me into the backseat of the car and I listened to them talking, dozing lightly all the way home. My foot healed, though going up and down the stairs was a bit challenging for a while.

At the time, I'd thought it was the most pain I had ever felt. I was wrong. This pain is infinitely worse.

Billy stops coming to take me for walks. I go out with John and we take slow, meandering routes through new parks. I should be excited to explore new places, but I feel such a hollow emptiness inside me. I still have John, I try to be strong for him, but I feel Sherlock's absence keenly.

One day, John stands in the kitchen holding my leash. He is so still and quiet, it makes me nervous. I trot over to him, paw at his trouser leg to get his attention. He jerks a little, startled from his thoughts, then he smiles down at me.

"Come on Glads, we're going for a little trip," he tells me as he fastens my leash. He is crouched beside me and struggles to stand again. He puts his hand on the worktop and leans heavily onto it for a moment. I lick the hand holding my leash and he laughs quietly. He tugs my leash and I follow him downstairs and into the cab waiting outside.

The cab ride isn't too long but I'm anxious to find out where we're going. I haven't ridden in a car since the horrible day Lestrade came to pick me up. He had put me in the back, clipping me into a harness. His car smelled like him; warm and welcome and friendly. That journey had ended with me curled on a bench in Sally's lap. I never want to have another journey like that ever again.

Finally, the cab comes to a stop. John leans over and gives something to the driver, tells him not to bother waiting. We'll walk home. I look at John expectantly, and he sighs, rubbing my head before he gets out of the car and pulls me to follow.

I sniff the air. It's fresh and pleasant here, there are trees and flowers and I can hear a few birds singing. There are lots of stones standing around too. John takes a deep breath and leads me among the stones. There's no path to follow but he must know where we're going. I snuffle at some flowers left in front of one or two stones, and John lets me take in the scents briefly before tugging me to move along.

John stops in front of a black stone. There are no flowers here. I sit next to him and wait.

John shifts his weight, he seems anxious. I watch him carefully, I look around to make sure there are no threats nearby. I see nothing, and his nervousness makes me whimper. He looks down at me fondly, stroking my head. I lean into his leg, feeling a little comforted.

"It's okay, Glads," he murmurs. His voice is cracking. I hate it. He sounds like this sometimes in the night, he calls out Sherlock's name and thrashes in his sleep. I stand on the bed and move to lie on his legs to make him still. Usually, he goes back to sleep again. I don't think he notices that I lick his hand when he does. I only want to reassure him, remind him I am there.

I do it now, lick him. He smiles again, but it's so brittle, not bright like he used to smile. Like Sherlock's smiles. I miss those smiles, on both of their faces. John turns to the black stone.

"You told me once you weren't a hero," he starts. He's not talking to me, but to the black stone. I'm confused but I stand proudly by his side, this terribly sad man whom I love so much. He struggles with the words he wants to say and looks around self-consciously. He steps forward a few paces and rests his fingers on top of the stone. I move closer too and lie down, my nose touching the cool surface. It feels nice enough, a kind of melancholy peace settles around me.

I don't know how long passes as we stay there, each touching this cold stone. Eventually John glances down and sees me, and suddenly he's on his knees, face buried in my fur. I whimper and he shushes me, wiping his face as he briskly stands again. I don't see tears this time but his head is bowed and somehow I know he is holding them back.

He takes a step back and moves to turn away, then stops. I get to my feet to follow him. 

"Please, Sherlock," John says brokenly. "There's just one more thing. One more miracle. For us. Don't... be... dead. Would you do... Just for us, me and Gladstone. Just stop it. Please."

John tugs on my leash and we walk away, heading for the place that is not home.

******

A few weeks later John puts my bowl down as usual on the kitchen floor. I lift my head and sniff at the food there. It's the same food as Sherlock buys for me, and I do like it, but I don't especially want to eat it right now. I lap listlessly at the water in the other bowl and wander into the sitting room.

Lestrade has been by with a box of Sherlock's things. Not long after he left, John got out his glass and funny-smelling liquid again. I cuddled into the warmth of his body when he fell asleep on the sofa. The box disappeared into the bottom of the wardrobe, but I nosed my way in and found a blue thing there that still held Sherlock's scent. I dragged it to the sitting room and hid it as best I could behind a chair.

Now, I go to find it and gently pull it free from its hiding place. I hold one end in my mouth and pace in a circle, wrapping its length around me. I flop down onto the end and bury my nose into one of the folds, breathing deeply. I hurt, all over. The emptiness of not having Sherlock here with us causing holes to tear open in me that, try as I may, I can't seem to fill. There is a dull ache in my bones I can't soothe. John still takes me for walks each day but it's getting harder and harder to keep up. I've lost much of my appetite and today I can't face eating at all.

John comes into the sitting room and inhales sharply when he sees me. I flinch, expecting to be yelled at again.

"Oh Gladstone, I miss him too. I miss him so much," John tells me, kneeling beside me and stroking my flank. I try to wag my tail, I love John petting me, but all I manage is to lift it and thump it against the carpet a couple of times.

"You poor thing," John murmurs to me, "come on." He tries to encourage me to stand up but my legs give way beneath me. I whimper pitifully, I feel so weak and grey.

"Oh God, Gladstone!" John's voice is high and panicked. He picks up his phone and I can hear him speaking worriedly to someone. I lay my head back down again, taking comfort in the scent of Sherlock still lingering in my nose. John is pacing, gathering his keys and wallet. He puts his things in his pocket and sits down next to me, lifting my head into his lap. He presses his lips to my head a few times, murmuring to me. I want to wag my tail, get up and play with him, lick his hair and make him laugh, but I'm so very tired. John cuddles me close and I close my eyes.

When I open them again John is at the door, ushering someone inside. It's Lestrade. I lift my head up and watch cautiously as he approaches me. I'm wary and mistrustful, last time he came to take me somewhere horrible things happened.

"God, you were right, John," Lestrade is saying. "Let's get him downstairs." He reaches out a hand towards me. I growl, low in my throat, startling him and making him yank his hand back.

"Gladstone!" John scolds. I don't care. Lestrade reaches for the end of my material and I bark sharply.

"Gladstone, no!" John shouts at me. I snort and drop my head back to the floor. I can hear John and Lestrade talking about me.

"Look, just leave the scarf on him for now John. It's obviously helping him somehow, that's why he won't let me take it. I don't think he likes me much anymore," Lestrade says ruefully. John sighs, I can hear him rubbing his hand through his hair. 

"I know, it's silly and it's probably nothing, but I want to get him checked out," John mutters. "Besides, I can't... Not so soon after..." he trails off. From the corner of my eye I see his hand pressed to his face, Lestrade squeezing his shoulder. Oh John, I'm so sorry. Please, please don't cry. Please don't leave me all alone.

My whimpers catch their attention and John is instantly at my side. I lick his hand half-heartedly, try to get to my feet again. But I quiver unsteadily, my legs refusing to support my weight properly. John catches me, wraps his arms around my body and lifts me easily. I stay quiet as he carries me downstairs to Lestrade's car. He gets into the back seat with me and Lestrade drives us to the vet.

******

I hate the vet. It smells funny and I get poked and prodded. That's what's happening right now, in fact. Lights in my eyes and mouth, hands on my sides, feeling my ribs, checking my hips, ruffling my fur. I don't complain though, I want John to be happy with me again.

Finally the vet is finished and lets me down off the table. I shake myself briefly, wriggling to get rid of the feel of gloves on my fur, and lie down at John's feet.

The vet clears his throat. "Physically, he's in wonderful shape," he says. "Despite the loss of appetite, his weight is still healthy, for now. We'll have to monitor his eating though, you said he was drinking lots?" 

"No more than he normally does," John replies, "It's him being off his food that's worrying me."

The vet coughs again. "Has there... have there been any changes at home?" he asks quietly. It's John's turn to clear his throat.

"Um, yes, my.... my, um..." he stops. He opens his mouth to start again, forcing himself to speak. "We lost my partner a couple of months ago," he finally says. 

"Ah. I'm so sorry," the vet offers. John nods and looks away, his fists clenched at his sides. 

"I think Gladstone is grieving, same as you," the vet continues. "You need to keep to the same routine, try and persuade him to eat. You could give him some fresh meat rather than dried food, that might tempt him. Be sure to monitor him, if he gets any worse or stops drinking too, bring him straight back. And, take care of each other."

He pats John on the shoulder, the bad one, but John covers his flinch very well. I growl a little, softly, as a warning. The vet is an idiot.

I manage to walk back out to the car park where Lestrade should be waiting, but he's nowhere to be seen. John frowns and tells me to sit and stay. I plonk down at the entrance and watch him walk away to search. He only goes a few yards before I see him stop dead. I bumble over, still feeling weak. He bends down, I think to pick up my leash, but instead he lifts me to his chest. I'm confused, I thought we would get in a cab to go home?

It's then that I see the big black car that has drawn up alongside us. A man gets out and gestures to John. I turn my head to see who it is. 

Mycroft! Oh, I haven't seen Mycroft in so long! I wriggle in John's arms and he gently puts me down. Mycroft stoops to pet my head and I manage to wag my tail a few times.

"What. What do you want?" John snaps. I don't understand, why is John so upset? Mycroft can take us home, properly home, back to Sherlock!

"Please John," Mycroft is saying. "We have much to discuss."

John looks at me and I wag my tail again. "Fine," he bites out. I try to jump into the car but stumble and bash my face against the door. Ow.

"Easy, Gladstone, you bloody idiot," John says, picking me up again. I'm grateful, that was my last reserve of energy for now. I'm so tired, I just want to sleep. Mycroft joins us in the car and John holds me close in his arms, cuddling me as I sleep the whole way home.

******

"What are we doing here?"

John's angry voice rouses me from my nap.

"Go inside. I'll bring Gladstone up in a few minutes. All will be explained, John," Mycroft replies. John crosses his arms around me protectively, his mouth is set in a thin line. Mycroft rolls his eyes but this just makes John fiercer.

"Please, John."

Mycroft never says please. Something is either very wrong or very right, I think to myself. John grumpily shifts me over on the seat and gets out, slamming the door behind him. Mycroft sighs, petting my head absently.

"Your master has done something very stupid, for very good reasons," he muses. "I only hope he can resolve this satisfactorily. He does have such a large blind spot when it comes to matters of the heart."

Mycroft gets out of the car and carries me up the stairs. The yelling gets louder the further up we go. He sets me down gently at the top, retreats back downstairs and closes the front door behind him.

I breathe in the scent of home. My heart feels lighter than it has done for so long. I can hear John shouting, he is so very angry. Beneath his tirade though, there is another familiar voice. It is quietly trying to calm him, explain things. I know that voice. I know that scent.

Sherlock.

I try to leap into the room, bounding to my beloved masters as I've always done, but I'm still too weak. Grudgingly recognising that bounding is perhaps out of my range just for the moment, I opt for meekly limping into the room. Both voices fall silent as I creep in, head low, tail wagging as hard as I can push it.

John is standing by the window, fists clenched at his side. Sherlock is at the other side of the room, a bloody tissue in his hand. At the sound of my nails scraping along the wooden floor, they both turn to look at me. Sherlock drops to his knees as I approach.

"Gladstone," he whispers, burying his hands in my fur. I lick his face, his hair, his shirt in my excitement, and he chuckles softly. "Well, I'm pleased to see you too," he murmurs. I flop down and roll over, batting at him with my paws to get him to tickle my belly. I hear John laugh under his breath as Sherlock eagerly complies, tutting to himself when he feels where I have grown a bit thin.

I look over to John and bark at him until he joins in. There are tears in both of their eyes as they fuss over me. My heart swells with love and joy that my family is together again.

"Now Gladstone, you must eat properly," Sherlock tells me sternly. "Can't have John pissed off with us both, can we?"

"I am pissed off," says John, "and I will be for a while. But don't think I'm also not... happy to have you back."

"I know, John," Sherlock breathes, "I know."

They stand and embrace for a long time. I manage to get up onto the sofa before I fall into a deep, restful sleep. The day my world rebuilt itself is the day that Sherlock came home.

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